I am truly living through one of the weirdnest stages of my life yet.
I don’t want to write too much about it here, because I’m planning to use it as material for my second novel. That’s what I’m telling myself through gritted teeth, “everything is mateeeeeerial”, while engaging in ways of earning money I smugly thought I’d left behind over ten years ago. That’s one of the confusing things going on for me right now - I’ve published a novel, undoubtedly the biggest achievement of my “career” (cringe) so far, while also being out of regular work due to the crisis in UK’s TV and film industry (by profession I’m a script editor & development executive in scripted drama and comedy - hire me!!)
I use my own life and experiences as material for writing. This, I’ve come to find out, can be problematic at times. I use memories, events, anecdotes and feelings, and then mould them into something new or different, and importantly, fictional. Most writers I know do this. What’s tricky, is when you write close to your own life but not really about it, and people in your life mistake fiction for facts or a character’s sentiments for your own.
Some of the most baffling reactions to my debut novel have come from people I know in real life. The reactions and my reactions to their reactions have ranged from the comical (a family member asking if my parents are divorced because the protagonist’s parents in the novel are, me: “No!!! It’s fiction!!!”) to the gut-wrenching (my mum crying on the phone after finishing the novel, feeling sorry that so many bad things have happened to me, me: “…it’s fiction…”). A friend got offended by the way I had portrayed a character who beared resemblance to her in a scene. I felt ashamed and guilty and then annoyed and finally okay with it - both her reaction and my writing.
In many ways I’m not interested in engaging in any kind of discussion around what’s based on my own life and what isn’t - or so I thought until the lines got muddled with my real family and friends. I can’t scream “it’s fiction!!!” with a conviction about all of it. Some of the stuff really happened. The abortion, for example. Writing about it felt important. Knowing that family members would read it felt uncomfortable, and again, guilt-inducing, but I chose to bury my head in the sand and aim for a state of zen called artistic freedom.
Most of the stuff didn’t, though. I’ve never worked in Hollywood or had a boyfriend like Charlie, although I did have lots of bad romantic and sexual experiences with men. At one stage of the editing process my editor made a cutting remark: “all the men in the novel are horrible. Could one of them be nice?” I did give it some thought, but at that stage writing a nice man would’ve felt untruthful. I wanted to write about the very real and heart-breaking possibility that a young woman has had solely negative experiences with men. I knew it to be possible because it was my own experience, experience which I struggled with.
Readers’ (non-family members) reactions have been fascinating. Most of the feedback has been very positive, which has surprised me and warmed my heart immensely. I’ve felt seen and encouraged, and my belief in my ability to write well has been validated. You’re advised not to read any reviews on Goodreads and other platforms like that, and that was my noble plan too, but I’ve of course read everything. Everything. I’ve found myself googling my own name more times than I’d like to admit (so, so many times). The negative feedback has been interesting, because I’ve noticed it falling into two completely opposing categories: one saying the novel is too light, and the other saying the novel is too dark and depressing. I am okay with both of these viewpoints. Not everything needs to be for everyone. Reading some of the more negative or lukewarm reader reviews didn’t feel as bad as I thought they would, probably because there’s been a lot more positive ones, or perhaps therapy has worked and I’ve grown as a human being?! (Definitely the former and not the latter, lol) I clicked on the profiles of the couple 2-star reviewers, and even one 1-star, looked at the books they had given positive reviews and thought, fair. You just have bad different taste. It’s got nothing to do with me. Although let me say this - leaving a public bad rating on a debut author’s novel is such a cunty thing to do, save that stuff for J.K. Rowling.
It’s exciting to think about what next. I love beginning new projects, and I love the final edits, it’s all the stuff in the middle (most of the work) that’s hard. I have an idea for a new novel; I’ve got the main characters and a nice pile of ~themes~, there’s even a working title. What I don’t have is money which would buy me time, it would feel frivolous to work on a new novel right now when I’m in such a precarious situation financially and need to hustle (this is hard for a person like me who just wants to lift her legs up and idle). Sometimes I wonder if writing and publishing novels in Finnish is just an expensive hobby, as it certainly is not something that pays the rent. I’m probably not allowed to be that cynical yet, only three months into my novelist journey. But life is hard and the bills are costly…
That reminds me - I’ve enabled paid subscriptions on Substack. I know my publishing pace is not very good at the moment, so I’m not expecting a huge rush of paid subscribers, but the option is there if you’d like to support my writing for £3.50/month. In the future I plan to start writing some posts behind the paywall, but so far everything is and will be public for a while at least.
With that, goodbye and happy easter! 🐣